The Rouje Kith

Chapter 8

The only things making working retail even faintly palatable were getting your biweekly check and the fact that night stockers didn’t have to deal with customers. Sadly, Zoe’s payday shift overlapped with opening the Greenfield Grocery’s doors, and she was caught in front of a dairy case by an elderly woman with a cloud of bluish-grey hair and a tartan purse clutched to her once-ample but now deflated bosom like she was expecting a mugger to show up in the aisles.

“Miss? Excuse me, Miss?”

At least the lady was polite. Zoe straightened self-consciously, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. Her braid was coming loose, curls Mama had despaired of ever taming working free with a vengeance.

“Yes ma’am?” The right tone for dealing with biddies like this was carefully respectful; they spooked easy and got vicious if you barked too loud.

“I can’t find them.” The woman’s mouth turned down at the corners and her wrinkled cheeks were paper-thin; when the wind came up the river it might blow her away. She’d probably married a roughneck and moved from the Midwest when she was a girl full of dreams. The faint hint of cologne touching her too-large leather boots said they were a dead husband’s and the sourness of mild incontinence meant she was probably looking for the Poise pads today. “The eggs on sale, in the circular.”

Lady, you think I know about the ads? I’m just night work. But Zoe was wearing a nametag—it said Martha, her own little joke—and an orange polyester apron because the doors were open, so that made her a walking store directory.

Lady, you think I know about the ads? I’m just night workMarthaIt wasn’t this woman’s fault, so Zo swallowed a hot rancid flare of impatience. “Let’s take a look.” Since they’re labeled on the shelf, too. “This way.” It was four steps, max, and Royal would have drawled If it was a snake you’d be dead.

Since they’re labeled on the shelf, too.If it was a snake you’d be deadRoy was an asshole. At least, Zoe hoped he still was and not had been. A shudder went down her back and she took a deep breath, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the reek of old dairy from the cooler behind the shelves.

washad been“I can’t find them, you see.” Faded, bloodshot blue eyes blinked, and the old woman’s shoes squeaked on freshly buffed linoleum. It always stank after the floors were done, and maybe that was why Zoe didn’t smell trouble at first.

Patiently repeating that she was sure these were the eggs in the circular—the big bright tag on the shelf said so, after all, and if they weren’t the checkers could handle giving a discount—ate up at least three and a half minutes. If she was late to clock off Nash would be on her a*s; there was nothing worse than a good ol’ boy with a little power, especially one who looked like a fat blurred copy of a minor movie star and knew it.

Still, the old lady got her eggs, and though it was against store policy Zoe stripped off her orange apron as soon as the biddy shuffled away with a carton in her slightly trembling paws. Zo also tore off her nametag for good measure and plunged into the stockroom, hurrying for the timeclock.

That was when the heel on her left boot decided to come off completely.

Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake. It took everything she had not to hiss it aloud, because Steve Junior—everyone called him that, though his daddy didn’t work here—was standing by the large freezer, his sandy-dark unibrow wrinkled with worry and a faint sheen of perspiration on his broad forehead.

Oh, for Christ’s sweet sake.“Martha? Over here.” Low and urgent. He beckoned, and Zoe’s temper almost snapped.

It wouldn’t take much. She was much stronger than she looked. “What? I’ve gotta clock off.”

“There’s some guy looking for you.” Steve stocked dairy and the hanging deli; he was built low and wide. He hunched, turtling his head, and the faintest twitch of his chin told her what direction the danger was coming from. “Nash is taking him around. Some bigshot, looks like a cop.”

Holy f**k. For a moment she thought it was a practical joke, but there was no edge of malice to his scent. Instead, Steve Junior’s sweat was adrenaline-greasy, relieved not to be in trouble but still taking the time to warn another soldier in the retail trenches.

Holy fuckThe back end of Greenfield Grocery had a high bare ceiling sectioned by n***d beams, a cracked concrete floor in the non-customer areas, and was full of several cold drafts in winter. At the other end, Tanisha and Harper argued good-naturedly over a couple pallets while Bubs ran the forklift. There was a fire door nearby, but the alarm on it was live. The receiving bays and the smoke door were closed at this point in the morning, since most of the freight had already been delivered.

Besides, Zo hadn’t done anything, and though her ID wouldn’t stand up to serious scrutiny she didn’t make enough for the tax man to come calling, as Pastor Bea would say.

doneOf course there was Bea, and Royal. She should just run now and leave any questions for later.

But God damn it, she had a paycheck to pick up, and she needed it. Especially if she had to run.

damnThe hesitation must have shown on her face; Steve glanced over his shoulder. “Last I saw they were looking for you out on the floor.” He was a decent enough guy, for all he stared fixedly at the t**s of any female unlucky enough to end up in the breakroom with him. “You could probably get through Housewares and grab your check before, well. You know.”

“Yeah.” Or I could just f**k off and get another job. But she’d worked for that pittance and should at least try to collect it. “Thanks, Steve.”

Or I could just f**k off and get another jobIf the worst happened, well…she was fast. She didn’t know just how fast, and it probably wasn’t worth another Bad Incident to truly find out. But for God’s sake, if they would just leave her alone she would be fine.

howaloneEverything would be.

Zoe turned and slipped through the swinging doors again, her left boot-heel flopping. The entire sole would come off if she had to move fast, but she’d run barefoot before. Not only that, but if she was going to do what she suspected was necessary, what stopped her from shoplifting a pair of sneakers on her way out the front?

Pastor Bea always said stealing was wrong, but there was a word for a man who mouthed a moralism while helping himself from the church coffers. Zoe tucked her nametag in the apron’s pocket and dropped the entire bundle at the end of a Housewares aisle—stocking the appliances was fine but the dishes were a nightmare, bulky and fragile at once—and with that done she was just another customer, albeit moving more purposefully than most.

She made it to the front of the store without being noticed. Her purse was in an employee locker, but she was used to leaving things behind and always carried her current set of ID in a jeans pocket. If she could get in and get her check, she could cash it for an exorbitant fee at the place on Martello Avenue. She could be on a Greyhound less than an hour later, traffic and the stupidly slow public transit system notwithstanding.

It was a good plan, and she might have pulled it off except for the stench of the floor treatment deadening her nose at just the wrong time. She broke out of the shampoo-and-soap aisle and approached Customer Service, where employees could grab their checks from behind the counter if they hadn’t signed up for direct deposit, just the store manager Nash rounded the other side. He brightened, catching sight of her.

And behind him was a tall blond man with dark eyes, in a very good tailored grey suit and a subdued blue tie far too expensive for a Greenfield Grocery just after dawn.